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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565483">Something to Believe In</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberrychai/pseuds/blackberrychai'>blackberrychai</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Archbishop My Unit | Byleth, Inspired by Poetry, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Other, Post-Game(s), Post-War, Soft Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Sparring, duke Felix, they have one braincell and it is Sword</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:00:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,499</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberrychai/pseuds/blackberrychai</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Byleth is a weapon—smooth muscle, rope-like scars, and not much else. Byleth, above all, is not a fucking archbishop.</p>
<p>(Or, how they ended up with their Azure Moon ending card.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Felix Hugo Fraldarius/My Unit | Byleth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Something to Believe In</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title and general inspiration taken from <a href="https://poets.org/poem/something-believe">this</a> poem by Carl Phillips, which is just... extremely Felileth core.</p>
<p>Prompted by my thinking about how they actually ended up becoming Duke and Archbishop. Then I got too invested.<br/>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elasmosaurus">Elasmosaurus</a> for looking this over!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Byleth is not built for that kind of thing: politics, tense tables filled with quibbling aristocracy. Nor are they built for lecturing congregations, or inspiring the faithful. Byleth is a weapon—smooth muscle, rope-like scars, and not much else. Byleth, above all, is not a fucking archbishop.</p>
<p>Rhea, her voice melodic and pleading, but making Byleth want to retch a little for some reason, says, “The church is yours, my dear child. I have only been safeguarding it for you.”</p>
<p>“I don’t <em>want </em>it,” they repeat, but Rhea just shakes her head.</p>
<p>She looks old now in a way she hadn’t before her imprisonment in Enbarr, and Byleth can’t help but wonder if she still has all of her wits about her. But she is insistent, determined, and they can’t manage it any more.</p>
<p>So Byleth retreats to their old room, the tiny one meant for a student, shoved right down at the end of the row of dormitories. They’d appreciated before how close it was to the training grounds—they could step out of bed, and leave the ridiculous pomp of Garreg Mach behind, to just be buried in the language they do understand: sword strikes on straw dummies, the thunk of an arrow embedding itself in a target, the satisfying feeling of a thumb on the edge of a newly sharpened weapon.</p>
<p>If they become archbishop, it suddenly occurs to them, will they have to move into Rhea’s chambers? Isolated above everyone like that? Besides, Byleth’s only real experiences of those rooms are strange, tense tea times spent with Rhea, and they can’t say those make them seem particularly appealing.</p>
<p>Their bed feels remarkably small and cold tonight. On a whim, Byleth opens the door to their room, and crouches down to make small noises until two cats wind their way into the room. They push little noses into Byleth’s hands, and twine about their ankles, but settle easily beside them when they return to bed. It’s reassuring, the way their little ribcages rise and fall so evenly.</p>
<p>In the morning, they go in search of Felix. He’s in the training grounds, of course, because he always is. The war may be over, but that doesn’t mean Felix is done. All the rest of her army—and it had been her army, really, even to the end—are satisfied to let things rest, at least for a little. But not him. Never him.</p>
<p>Felix grunts when he sees them. “Good, you’re here,” he says. “Spar with me.”</p>
<p>It’s not easy to coax a smile out of Byleth, but his imperious tone, no space for disagreement, does so easily. But reluctantly, they shake their head. “I shouldn’t,” they say regretfully. “I ought to go and find Rhea.”</p>
<p>He scowls. “Well, fuck Rhea,” he says.</p>
<p>Byleth rolls their eyes. “She wants me to replace her as archbishop,” they say bluntly.</p>
<p>There’s a moment of shocked silence as Felix takes this in. “Fuck,” he says succinctly.</p>
<p>“My thoughts precisely,” Byleth says with a weary smile.</p>
<p>“Are you… are you going to do it?” Felix asks.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. But I don’t—I can’t think about it any more right now,” Byleth grumbles, pushing their hair back from their face. “I want to be distracted for a while. So come on. My last order as commander of this fucking army, before I’m either consigned to the priesthood or run away in disgrace.” They grin, and sink into a battle-ready stance. “Give me everything you’ve got, Fraldarius.”</p>
<p>A slow, savage grin spreads across Felix’s face, and he nods sharply. He crouches slightly, preparing himself, and with their swords raised they begin to circle each other. Then Felix is flying towards them with a wordless cry, and Byleth quickly pushes the marvel that is Felix’s hair flying back from his face as he moves out of their mind. This spar is all quick motions, reckless swings and darting parries. There’s no time for the contemplation that a friendly fight often allows—time to plan out strategies, time to note how your opponent moves. Byleth falls back onto instinct honed by a lifetime of fighting. They spin out of reach of Felix’s attack, ignore a feint, sidestep an attempt to shove them. Gradually, they work their way inside his guard, avoiding every blow.</p>
<p>And finally, finally, the opening comes. There’s a gap in Felix’s defence, right <em>there </em>and Byleth steps forward, back, then forward again and stabs up towards his left side. They have him now—he’s too close to avoid it. Except somehow he does. He leans to the side, takes a single perfect step backwards, and then Byleth realises they’re overextended, off-balance.</p>
<p>Felix realises too, and he smirks as he reaches out a hand to grab the crossguard of their sword, and pulls. Unable to keep hold of it and stay upright, Byleth concedes the weapon, springing back to make another attempt. It gets thrown carelessly to the side. Byleth raises their hands, dodges his next strike, then lands a firm punch on Felix’s wrist. He hadn’t been expecting that, and they catch just the right place to make him drop his sword in surprise.</p>
<p>Letting out a grunt of frustration, he can’t bend in time to retrieve it before Byleth is kicking it away, sending it skittering across the stone floor. They’re both bare-handed now, and are back to the tentative circling of the beginning.</p>
<p>But after everything, after dedication and training and ceaseless hours brawling, Felix is stronger than them now. The realisation sends equal parts pride and chagrin running through Byleth, but even so, they grit their teeth and strike out at him. He dodges, steps, strikes, and then it’s done.</p>
<p>He bears Byleth heavily to the ground, pinning them securely at shoulder and hip. They sigh, and nod, and Felix lets them up again with a smirk. It was a shame it was ended so quickly, Byleth thinks, then glances up at the sun. It must have been longer than they expected, they realise in surprise. It’s almost overhead now.</p>
<p>Wearily, they pick up their sword again from the floor, and inspect the blade. It’s good steel this, and luckily it seems entirely undamaged. They sheathe it, then lean their back against the nearest column, staring up at the wisps of cloud and the sun baking the tiles of the roof.</p>
<p>Felix picks up his sword again, and his face sets in its usual scowl until he looks up at them. He goes soft around the edges, his eyes somehow deepening. “Come here,” he says, and his voice is achingly gentle in a way Byleth has never heard before.</p>
<p>They go.</p>
<p>Felix is not one for overt affection, or for physical touch, but when he does something, he does it whole-heartedly. He holds them close against him, fingers curling into the muscles of their back. Byleth breathes in the smell of him—morning-fresh from the baths, all leather and sword-oil and pine tea.</p>
<p>“I can’t do this,” they breathe, quiet and sad and desperate.</p>
<p>Felix scoffs, loud against their ear, and Byleth flinches. He smooths a hand over their hair in what they choose to think of as apology. “You can do anything you want to,” he says.</p>
<p>Byleth sighs into his shoulder. “But that’s the point. I don’t want to.”</p>
<p>His hand stills on their back. “Oh.”</p>
<p>Lifting their head, Byleth looks at him. “What? You think I would want to be a priest?”</p>
<p>That brings a slight smile to his face. “No. Not when you put it like that. But command… authority sits well with you. People will follow you anywhere.”</p>
<p>Byleth rolls their eyes. “Oh, please.”</p>
<p>“I’m serious,” he says, frowning. He lets them go, steps back, turns away. Then he crams his fingers into his hair, pulling them through the rough knots. “I am not much in favour of loyalty,” he said starkly. “It grows blind too easily, and I’m not remotely good at it. But you are… you are worth people’s loyalty.”</p>
<p>Bile rises in Byleth’s gullet. “I’m not,” they choke out. “I’m just a mercenary, Felix, I don’t know what I’m <em>doing </em>here. Rhea believes that because of,” Byleth pulls at a lock of their mint-green hair, “Because of all <em>this</em>, I must therefore lead the church. But I don’t know how to. I never expected any of this.”</p>
<p>Felix looks oddly distraught at this. “I told you before, you will manage if you do choose to do it.”</p>
<p>“What should I do?” Byleth asks quietly. “I have… nothing left now. Fighting is all I’m good for, and if all goes well I won’t even be needed for that any more.” They laugh bitterly. “I’ve made myself obsolete, you know. That’s another thing I never expected.”</p>
<p>Felix visibly steadies himself, taking in a deep lungful of air. “There is more left for you than you think,” he says, uncharacteristically gentle. “You know there is a place for you in any of a thousand territories. The question is what you <em>want </em>to do.”</p>
<p>“I want to be useful,” Byleth says after a moment. “It feels so odd to be doing nothing.” They are all licking their wounds, they suppose, now that the war is won. Dimitri intends to return to Fhirdiad in a few days, and Byleth still doesn’t know what they will do once everyone is gone. They shake their head to clear it. “I wake every morning, and I think… is this it? Is every morning to be like this? So purposeless? But if I become archbishop… will it just be these new parts of my day where everyone runs to my call?”</p>
<p>“People doing what you say is nothing new,” Felix interjected.</p>
<p>“True. But there’s a difference between ordering people in battle, and just… ordering them to bring me a cup of tea.”</p>
<p>He snorts. “If they are bringing you tea, I’m surprised anyone here ever gets a chance to rest.”</p>
<p>“<em>Felix</em>,” Byleth says, then sighs. “I know there is work to be done, and, well. I am a little glad Rhea is stepping down. But I don’t want it to be <em>me</em>, Felix, I don’t know how to do this!”</p>
<p>Felix winds a careful hand around the back of Byleth’s neck. “Nobody can decide for you,” he says seriously, staring into their eyes. “Do you think I want to be Duke Fraldarius? I can’t stand court politics any more than you. But—” he breaks off, and sighs.</p>
<p>Byleth sobs a laugh. “But,” they agree bitterly.</p>
<p>They bring their hands up and scrub at their eyes. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I interrupted our sparring session. I don’t mean to be so…” they trail off.</p>
<p>“Nonsense,” Felix says sharply. “This is important.”</p>
<p>“That’s half the problem,” they mutter. “Whatever I choose, it will change what happens to Fódlan. I don’t <em>want</em> that.”</p>
<p>“You realise,” Felix muses bitterly, “We’re part of history now. We’re stuck with it.”</p>
<p>Byleth sighs. “We are, aren’t we. And that…” They shut their eyes against the glare of the sun. “I suppose that’s why I have to do it.”</p>
<p>“And that’s why I will leave here with Dimitri,” Felix continues. “And play the part of Duke Fraldarius.”</p>
<p>Wiping at their face again, Byleth snorts. “A fine pair we make, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Felix steps in closer to them, and pulls their hands gently away from their face. “You know,” he says, quiet and slow, “I am dreading leaving here.”</p>
<p>He carries on holding on to Byleth’s hands, even once they are lowered. “Do you hate Fhirdiad that much?” they ask.</p>
<p>“Hmph. Well, yes,” Felix agrees with a wry twist of his lips. “But that isn’t… That isn’t quite what I meant. I will be sad to be away from this place.” He takes a deep breath. “And sad to be away from you.”</p>
<p>Byleth smiles slowly. “I will miss you,” they admit. “I will miss sparring with you.”</p>
<p>“No, that’s not what I meant either,” Felix says, frustrated and scowling down at their joined hands.</p>
<p>They frown back. “What do you mean, then?”</p>
<p>He makes an exasperated noise, then abruptly drops Byleth’s hands. “I mean—” he begins, then breaks off. “Oh, <em>damn it</em>,” he says, and then his hands are in their hair and he’s pulling them into a sharp, biting kiss.</p>
<p><em>“That’s</em> what I mean,” he says when he pulls away.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Byleth says stupidly. Then, “<em>Oh</em>,” and they reach out to tangle their hands into Felix’s ponytail in return. He’s pulled easily in, and the tense expression on his face releases into something with an entirely different kind of edge of desperation.</p>
<p>Byleth has no idea how long they stand in the training grounds, losing themselves in the heat off each other’s lips, the way their hands can fit so perfectly into the bend of the lower back, the divot of the waist. By the time they break apart, Felix’s hair is loose and ruined around his shoulders, and he looks so wonderfully debauched that Byleth’s breath catches in their throat.</p>
<p>“My room is just over there,” they mutter, pressing their forehead against his.</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>,” he says, and eagerly drags them by the hand towards the exit.</p>
<p>As soon as they are inside, Byleth presses Felix up against the door, enjoying how his fingernails bite into their skin as they pull at his shirt to trail kisses edged with teeth down his chest.</p>
<p>“Bed,” they say, tugging at the waistband of his trousers, and the rest of their clothes end up flung across the floor.</p>
<p>They collapse into each other on the mattress. Soon, all Byleth can think about is hands there, and there, and oh, <em>goddess, there</em>—and then Felix is panting into their mouth.</p>
<p>“Fuck, fuck, Byleth, please,” he mutters, and Byleth groans. Their head tilts back, and Felix bites lightly at their exposed throat, and then they are coming undone with a brief cry. There’s a choked sob as Felix follows, and they are left tangled together, sweat-soaked, out of breath.</p>
<p>They lie there and breathe. The room is still small, the bed cramped. But it is less cold now. Felix’s breath ghosts across their arm, as it lies draped across his chest. Their skin together is interesting. They are both patterned with scratches and scars, and underneath, they are nothing but muscled animals. It makes a certain kind of sense, Byleth muses, staring at the ceiling. It seems right that the two of them should fit together like this. Smooth muscle by smooth muscle, the ripple of breath and motion, both of them running, running, running. Maybe this, this strange feeling as the rhythm of their breathing crosses, syncopates—maybe this is how people stay alive.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>                          The dogs settle to either side of me as if each <br/>were the slightly folded wing of a beast from fable, part power, part <br/>recognition. We breathe in a loose kind of unison. Our breathing <br/>ripples the way oblivion does—routinely, across history’s face.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—Carl Phillips</em>
</p>
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